


A Good Night’s Sleep For Once

by The_Kittylorian (Carasynthia_Lune)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Another Migs Mayfeld character study oh yeah, But I wrote this instead of sleeping, Character Study, Din Djarin & Migs Mayfeld - Freeform, Din Djarin is helpless again, Gen, Gotta sleep at night, Mayfeld - Freeform, Migs Mayfeld - Freeform, Migs Mayfeld being a bro, Migs Mayfeld is a good guy, Migs Mayfeld vs The Empire, Morak, Once again Din Djarin needs a hand, Spoilers, Spoilers for Season 2 Episode 7 "The Believer", Valin Hess - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:49:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28126404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carasynthia_Lune/pseuds/The_Kittylorian
Summary: It’s Migs Mayfeld’s first day as a free (and apparently dead) man, but he simply could not shake off the incidents which led to this interesting turn of events. One thing’s for sure—he’d try his hand at sleeping well enough on his first night as a free, dead man. A character sketch because Mayfeld has become a national treasure (for now lol). Mayfeld POV!
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	A Good Night’s Sleep For Once

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first attempt at writing for this fandom, and man, do I miss writing fanfiction. LOL! Seriously, it takes something as epic as "The Grogu Show," er, "The Mandalorian" to get me writing again, and it's not even about Mando himself. It's about a character which I found so very fascinating now because of Bill Burr's superb interpretation of his own character. Without further ado... please enjoy!

“I could use me a nice, cold beer, _dank farrik_!” Migs Mayfeld muttered to himself in a passionate half-irritated, half-pleased tone as he trudged down the length to get him to the outskirts of the town. He huffed. He knew the look of the town which he had driven through with the undercover Mandalorian, sheltered within the disguise of the Juggernaut—it was a town of scarcity and depletion. He definitely saw the tired complacency in the villagers’ eyes.

Mayfeld huffed again.

He hadn’t seen those sort of tired, desolate eyes in a while. He hadn’t the chance to mingle with plenty commonfolk at leisure since he began his own little bounty hunting days with one ragtag crew after another. His last ragtag crew had definitely made an impression on him. Ran had a way of downplaying the strengths and acumen of the people he hired; the old guy had a sly contempt of everyone in general, and Mayfeld knew Ran didn’t see him more than an ex-Imperial expendable, but he let it go. He didn’t care much as long as he got paid at the end of every dirty job.

Mayfeld wrinkled his nose as he absently traced his steps. In a distance, he could hear alarms and panic, but he trudged on, unmoved.

He had to admit that Ran’s contempt of the Mandalorian bled onto him. Told him about his Creed. “This is the way.” Ran laughed a throaty, robust laugh as he relayed what the Mandalorian was and what the Mandalorian was not, based on the jobs he had shared with the helmeted warrior in the past. Mayfeld knew Ran _hated_ the Mandalorian, but in a world where credits and all manner of riches talk, in a time when all of the Rims were recovering from the ravages of war, anything personal is secondary.

Mayfeld found himself walking on a dirt path littered with the debris of blown-up Juggernauts. “Stinks in here,” he mumbled, wincing at the ruin. He plodded on.

Mayfeld then found himself humming gruffly under his breath. An off-key tune, of an unknown song. A song he had made up then and there. It felt nice to do these silly things once in a while.

He was _good_ at making stuff up.

But how in the hell did he manage the nickname “Brown Eyes” at a split moment’s notice?

“That was _lame as hell_ ,” he muttered to himself, with a small, amused chuckle. The Imps would chew on any story just to get it out of the way, so then _they_ could hear themselves talk after allowing some half-hearted, half-baked courtesy. In a way, the Empire themselves have become rather complacent—they just still had a bit more power, is all.

Well.

So Mando had finally shed the helmet off. Maybe not his own Mandalorian helmet, and not along within his Mandalorian armor—but what did Mayfeld knew of the Creed, and the stringent and strange Mandalorian ways? Greatest warriors of the galaxy. Yet Brown Eyes was _but a man_.

Mayfeld couldn’t say he was impressed or disappointed. At that moment, when he peered at how the Mandalorian was doing with regards to the terminal and the datastick—he remembered thinking, oh, _he’s just any ol’ guy_. Had a full head of hair on him (Mayfeld thought with a shard of envy), but the Mandalorian was awfully well-groomed for someone who spent his waking hours under the weight of armor and a helmet.

Mayfeld recalled the number of obscenities that ran through his mind in cold frustration when he took notice of Valin Hess standing up from where he sat, from the table at a far corner, and purposely approach the Mandalorian with the intent to confront him. Hess was someone who dearly relished being addressed by his station in every manner possible—a _superior_. _Of course_ Mando’s half-drawn salute wasn’t enough.

Mayfeld almost felt sorry for Mando. Almost. He stood there, stiffer than an upright corpse, with a quiet and surprising patience towards the onslaught Valin Hess was trying to administer upon him. Yet he had that determined look on him—and that’s when Mayfeld noticed Mando’s eyes. They were strikingly dark, but not entirely black. They were the intense but momentarily muffled eyes of a _warrior_. At that instant, however, Mando looked as though he hadn’t seen a human face out in the open for a long time. That was, in fact, the truth, Mayfeld realized. Mando’s body language betrayed such unease, a tightness in the gut and in the throat which Mayfeld nearly felt himself.

Mayfeld cursed under his breath. If Valin Hess recognized him, he could cook up a story then and there, but Mando needed a way out of this scrape. What did this Mandalorian know about Imperial rank, about TK numbers—apart from his own prison of a Code?

He stepped up, voice clear and unassuming, like what he had done everyday of his life when he was once an Imperial sharpshooter. He blabbered a quick, handy background for Mando—TK-593, Commanding Officer, a little hard of hearing because of an accident while on duty.

…So who the _hell_ was TK-593? In a moment of disconsolation, he could vaguely make out the TK numbers of the soldiers he had fought with in his division. But who’s counting? Certainly not the Empire, as far as he knew. For all Mayfeld could think of any number combination for an officer ranking just a little above him, he just needed to get them both out of this charade right away.

Mayfeld still grimly recalled the protocol too well—the useless, meaningless paperwork that came after every duty fulfilled. It’s just another check to the list, day in and day out, even in the midst of combat when one could lose their lives at the very next hour.

When Hess refused to dismiss them, and his oily, thick voice permeated his ears (to Mayfeld’s quivering disgust), Mayfeld knew that he had to keep his wits about him, as long as he and Mando were still undercover in this secret Morak refinery.

Mando moved stiffly, held his body like a board. _The poor bastard basically forgot how to human_ , Mayfeld thought in amusement. Yet the man’s discomfort at being this exposed for the first time in a very long while seemed to crawl very unpleasantly upon Mayfeld’s consciousness. Mando was willing to go through this period of what seemed the death of his soul, of his entire being, for information which can be easily obtained by anyone not in the Imperial records. These power-hungry Imp fools and their security measures sometimes don’t match.

_Eh_ , Mayfeld had thought. _So he really cares about the little green guy_.

And the little green guy wasn’t a pet, as Mando had flatly and briefly told them just to get them off his back during the mission to break Qin out of a New Republic prison ship. The little green guy was his boy, _his son_ , and Mando willingly placed himself under this mental torture just to bring him back.

Mando had something to fight for, to live for, and possibly to _die_ for—something which Mayfeld hadn’t had for a long, _long_ time. Mayfeld frowned.

The Mandalorian was indeed a warrior.

Then Valin Hess kept talking. His sleazy demeanor, like stubborn blood stains on an old shirt, crept into Mayfeld’s mind, slowly but surely.

The Empire was both powerful and pathetic. Both heartless and stupid.

Mayfeld had never, ever gotten his thoughts off Operation Cinder—not one damn night. He’d drank all the ale, did a few rounds of spice (which he thankfully detested), maybe became frisky with a few women and indulged in other mind-numbing pastimes, but Burnin Konn ironically kept _burning_ at the inside of his eyeballs as he closed them for the night, every night, in all the years after he’d stop serving the Empire.

Valin Hess had made all the decisions for that fateful mission. He implemented them with loatheful ease—to which Mayfeld detected an immediate lie when Hess grandiosed that they were difficult decisions. Destruction and death are no difficult decisions for a scumbag like Hess.

Once again, as he rambled on, a rage which he had suppressed for so long ignited in his heart like a hungry Krayt Dragon about to swallow a planet whole. _10,000 troopers gone in one fell swoop_. The Empire had barely flinched, as they figuratively polished their fingernails with nonchalance as they moved on to the next wave of orders by the fallen Emperor Palpatine to be post-humously implemented—and implement them, they did.

He had sensed Mando’s ever-growing unease again--his head bent down a little.

But Mayfeld had gone through this rabbit hole of anger and nothing could stop him now, not even Mando’s small tense shake of his head as he looked up at him, those dark brown eyes issuing a keen warning.

Mayfeld could have had, in that very heartbeat, flung a curdle of his own spit on Hess’s face, but he had taken out his blaster instead and fired at that bag of nerf garbage—and Hess fell to the mess hall floor with a very satisfying _plop_.

All hell broke loose. They had wiped out the mess hall of any pair of eyes which may have laid on Mando’s open face.

“I never saw your face,” Mayfeld had said, with a twinge of both compassion and admiration—as much as he hated to admit it—and handed Mando the trooper helmet. Mando had quickly slipped it on again, without ceremony. “You did what you had to do,” Mayfeld assured him beforehand.

_I did what I had to do_ , Mando had said back in the _Crest_ when Xi’an hissingly nudged him about Alzoc III. Mayfeld hadn’t thought much about it, then. He had heard about Mandalorians and their volatility. This Mando was just any old Mando, weapons and all, scraping for coin just like everyone else.

Man, somehow, even as he and Brown Eyes were amidst the shooting and the explosions and Imps recklessly falling off the broken mess hall wall into the dam below one by one, Mayfeld experienced an exhilaration which he had forgotten what felt like.

Killing the man which had ordered the deaths of thousands, of _millions_ , even—it felt damn _good_.

Everything that followed came out a blur—the _Slave I_ hovering over their heads to their rescue, him asking Mando to hand him a cycler rifle, him aiming at the heart of the rhydonium refinery and watching the entire thing get engulfed by balls of flame—never had he felt so exuberant to bursting in pulling a trigger.

Mayfeld had let out a long, inner sigh. His mind began to clear, and he thanked his stars that he was not a “trained” Stormtrooper going about their business with the poorest of aim. He was Migs Mayfeld—sharpshooter.

He certainly couldn’t thank his lucky stars enough when the Marshal of the New Republic, Cara Dune, had hinted that he may go free, but not without an acerbic reminder (mostly from her voice—that woman was something else!) that he was now a man wiped free of living record, and would go about the rest of his life as a ghost.

Mayfeld shrugged. Small price to pay for all the excitement he had today—and perhaps, with a sliver of growing hope—for the rest of his “life.”

“But first, that _damn_ beer,” Mayfeld spouted to himself again. He lifted his head up, realizing that he submerged himself in pondering for too long. Looming overhead was the raggedy village, nearly in shambles, with every man, woman, and child tottering about like ghosts themselves. _I’ll fit right in_ , Mayfeld thought somberly.

He realized Mayfeld had no credits on him, but he quickly made out the entrance of a makeshift tavern—and for reasons still unknown to him as to why the village kept a tavern despite its diminutive population—and slid right in.

Mayfeld wasn’t certain if any of them recognized him as one of the two Juggernaut pilots that passed through the worn dust path, but the sight of the vehicle and men in trooper armor could be enough to keep the village from looking for a lengthy amount of time.

Who knows? He’ll worry about it in the morning.

Mayfeld settled himself upon a stool facing the bar. A dark-eyed server, an elderly woman—her eyes were darker than Mando’s eyes, but filled with a stripe of confusion, approached him gingerly.

“You got beer in there?” he gruffly inquired, but as affably as he could manage. The server gave him a quick nod, her eyes shimmering with inquisitiveness and worry.

Mayfeld noted the hushed but excited voices of villagers around him. Of course, they knew of the refinery explosion. Marshal Dune would report that he had supposedly lost his life in _that_ one.

The voices were hushed, excited, but still with a mix of trepidation. They moved like silent, frantic little womprats.

The elderly server gave him his beer. She waited for payment.

“About that,” Mayfeld began. “I’m a poor traveler, see—been all my life. Didn’t know how the hell I got here, but if any of you good people could use a hand, maybe, uh, a mechanic, or ah _hell_ —even a nerf herder—I’d give my services for free for a while. How’s that sound?”

The woman had her eyes down, but Mayfeld could make out a confused but pleased curve in her lips.

“W-we could use some help in maintaining the generators,” she raspily replied.

Mayfeld beamed. “Excellent. Oh, that’s _excellent_.” He gulped down a bit of his beer and winced. It was stale and sour, but had kick. It was better than nothing. He turned to the old woman, his eyes a bit kinder now. “I’ll start today if you want.”

The elderly server looked about. There were too other dilapidated-looking men in the tavern—perhaps her sons?

Mayfeld turned to face them, and he held up his beer in a friendly toast. The men blinked out the figurative cobwebs from their eyes, and slowly nodded.

The old woman then spoke again. “You could start tomorrow, eh, Mr.—“

“Duncan,” Mayfeld told her easily. If he was going to start a new life as a ghost, he might as well start this very minute. “Just call me Duncan, ma’am. Pleasure to meet all of ya.”

The old woman finally smiled, and to Mayfeld’s own relief, hers was a smile of relief.

He didn’t know exactly how this sweet old mother would take to him immediately, a stranger with a whole slew of origins, no less, but Mayfeld guessed he still had it in him: the old charm his late father had taught him to handle himself with as a young boy.

The passing thought of Mando on his way to rescue the little green guy—his son—tapped at his mind once more. Mayfeld blinked and let out a sigh.

He imagined that the bare-faced Mando was in front of him, and he lifted his tankard of stale, dark beer to the atoms before him.

“I hope you do get your kid back, Brown Eyes,” Mayfeld softly toasted upon the thick, slightly ashy air. “To one of the best fathers in the galaxy.”

The latter statement was a flourish Mayfeld thought he’d never say about someone, much less the Mandalorian.

Man, his body was beat.

“Got a room to spare?” Mayfeld kindly asked the server again. “Look, I can sleep on the floor, too. I don’t mind one bit.”

****

That night, Mayfeld did have his own spot on the floor, by the corner of a storage pantry. He eased onto the covers, although newly washed, still felt and smelled greasy, like frying oil. Mayfeld shrugged.

His ex-soldier hyper-awareness had been alert for the rest of that day, but funnily, he sensed no danger directed upon him from this village. Only a general overbearing tiredness and a lingering sadness.

“Well, Duncan,” Mayfeld told himself softly, adopting his new name and identity—whatever it is. He’ll worry about it in the morning. “Looks like we’ve got some cheerin’ up to do….”

But his voice trailed off into a sudden, loud snore.

Mayfeld could only remember the next day that pains on his body were gone, and he was ready to take on the world.

That was the best sleep he had for the first time in ages.

“ _Dank farrik_ ,” said Mayfeld, with a shocking bit of contentment, even joy. “What a morning. What a damn beautiful _morning_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the name “Duncan” was a bit of a fond jab towards Bill Burr’s Bostonian origins, where Dunkin’ Donuts hailed from and where it's wildly popular. Hehehe. I'm not sure yet where Mayfeld's story goes from here, whether in fanfic or in canon, but I only hope they could bring his character back again (from the "dead") to possibly assist Mando once more for anything in future episodes. Thank you so much for reading!


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